Hearth and Home
by lareepqg
Summary: Beyond the clothes on his back and the few supplies he'd stuffed into his bag, he has nothing. No honor, no money, no country. He's even abandoned his family name - though Gunther doubts that had any value to begin with. Day 1 of Janther Week: Metonia.
1. Out the Door

"Gunther, please, you do not have to do this - no one blames you - I will petition - you can _stay_."

Jane is begging, pleading, and it is shredding his heart.

He can't though, stay. Jane is _well_ aware - she'd been right there, after all.

She watches, horrified but unable to stop him, as Gunther empties the small trunk which had served as his wardrobe in the barracks. He stuffs the contents into his rapidly-filling pack without a word - biting his cheek to prevent himself from screaming at the unfairness of it all - not caring if the clothes he shoves in are disorganized or bunched or wrinkled. It's not as if any of it is even _remotely_ in danger of being damaged by his rough treatment: he'd worn the nicest clothing he had on hand to his audience with the king. Everything else had been in his room back at his father's estate - and that was just as unavailable to him as if the manse had burned to the ground.

He almost wishes it had.

Gunther grabs a pair of well-worn socks and shoves them in. They've got holes, and need darning, but he can sort through all of it later, when he has put the castle behind him - far, _far_ behind him. When he is _alone_.

Right now his only task is to get out, to _leave._

There isn't a whole lot to pack - none of the knights keep much in the way of personal possessions - it's too much to carry, too much to care for, too much to dispose of when they meet their inevitable - and often _sudden_ \- ends.

" _Please-_ " she tries again.

He ignores her. He can't look at her just now, _won't._ If he does, surely he'll stop to listen. Pause long enough to see reason, or Jane's version of such, at any rate; allow himself to be dissuaded. Gunther cannot allow that. _Will_ not.

Having emptied his trunk, he drops to his knees to fish underneath the low ropes of his bunk.

She plops down on the bed where he is trying to work, inserting herself between him and the bed so he _cannot_ ignore her, and plants her feet onto the rough planks that make up the floor. It's a ridiculous, _silly_ attempt to prevent him from retrieving the items he's stored under his bed.

He sits back on his heels, annoyed at her interference. What, are they children again? Will she purple the tender flesh under his arm with a pinch if he ignores her? Should he lop off a bit of her hair to make her braids uneven when she does?

What does she hope to accomplish?

He gives her his fiercest scowl, which of course does _nothing_ \- she's far more stubborn than he is - so he reaches forward and _pulls_ on the frame of the rickety cot, moving it, and _her,_ out of his way. She digs in her heels, but there is not enough purchase for her to stop him.

Never one to be easily deterred, Jane crawls over the mattress and leans down until her face is level with his. "That life means nothing -" her breath is hot in his ear and her fingers clench and pull at - what _used_ to be - _his_ patchwork blanket. "It will be empty, hollow, and you will be miserable -" she sounds close to panic.

It hurts to hear her so. It was better, _far_ better, when she had been angry. Indignant and screaming at the injustice of it all.

But she knows - _had to know -_ that he was _already_ miserable. Had been, for a while. Long, long before all this unpleasant (but not unexpected) business with his father.

Gunther retrieves his winter gear from under his bed. It's barely fall now, the leaves are just beginning to turn, but he has no idea where he will be in a week, or a month, or when the winter storms roll through. He has no horse, no hearth, no _anything._ Hell, they'd even confiscated the moth-eaten dress and stiff slippers which had been part of his mother's dowry. No doubt they've already been destroyed, pulled apart for the tiny, misshapen pearls that had adorned them.

He has next to _nothing._

The _only_ thing he has left of his former, pre-castle life - a life he had not identified with for _years_ \- is his father's signet ring. A sentimentally _useless_ piece of jewelry which hangs heavily under his shirt. It had been given to him as a reminder of his father's - his grandfather's - his _family's_ \- treachery.

A symbol of the worthless name _Breech._

He supposes he could pry out the jewels and trade them for winter lodging, melt the ring itself down and sell the silver for a half-dead horse - it may come to that, yet - but for now, he'll wear it.

Or, at least, let it thump against the hollow, aching, cavity of his chest.

Gunther sorts through the meager gear - he'd put off replacing the more broken-down items this spring, thinking he'd be able to do so in the fall - and after a moment's consideration, pulls out the bundle of his taurpaulin and bedroll, as well. Technically it belongs to the castle, as it is part of his knight's kit - or rather, _had been -_ but to hell with the castle and its kingdom.

The king has taken everything, _everything_ \- including his honor. Gunther thinks the king, with his newfound wealth from his father's seized estate, can afford the gift of a ragged bedroll.

"You _can't_." Jane all but whines it, and for a confused moment Gunther thinks she's talking about the blanket and tarp. She's shaking her head furiously - her curls are working themselves free of her braid and fly about her in a reddish halo - as though the action itself will negate what has happened. As though either of them can change _anything_. "You _can't."_

For the first time since he'd stormed out of the throne room, since she'd started her one-sided, _futile_ argument, Gunther meets her eyes. Her face is flushed, her eyes are red and swollen, and there are tell-tale tracks on her cheeks.

She's been crying.

Surely an unusual and unnatural state for his partner.

His _former_ partner.

He's only seen her cry twice - three times now - once when she'd fallen off Dragon and broken her wrist, and the morning they had buried her mother.

 _God in heaven, it hurts to see her so._

"I can, Jane," he says. His voice betrays none of the emotion, the _anger_ \- the _loss -_ which is boiling inside. "I _am._ "

Gunther stands, and she scrambles up after him, blocking his way. She looks like she wants to hug him or slap him; possibly both. He steps forward, thinking she'll move out of his way, let him pass, but she does not.

Of course she does not. She is _Jane._

The rest of the knights watch their small drama unfold from from around the room - some pretend they are not listening - most don't bother. Gunther wonders how many of them believe the fabrications, the _lies_ Cuthbert has spread.

Gunther has no doubt the news of his father's treachery - his _treason_ \- are at the _very_ least, based in fact. Magnus has never been above taking advantage of a business opportunity which promised to be profitable: even those that are morally questionable in nature. Or - if Gunther is being _really_ honest with himself - blatantly seditious.

But the lies about his _own_ involvement? Surely none of them actually _believe_ the king's thinly-veiled accusations? These are men he's known for the better part of a decade; boys with whom he'd survived adolescence - then grown alongside into adulthood. Gunther has trained and served with them, fought and survived. They are men with whom he's made merry, nursed hangovers, mourned fallen comrades.

They _cannot_ actually think he's guilty?

No, they do not. But they _do_ need to protect themselves, and their families.

Jane doesn't seem to understand this concept. She is - always has been - loyal to a fault.

He moves to the left in an attempt to sidestep around her, but she mimics his movement, intent on blocking his path.

"I will not let you."

Gunther sighs.

He's already angry, so furious he can't see beyond the narrow tunnel of his forward momentum. It's almost as if he has on blinders, or is wearing a full metal helm, and he knows this strange calm which has settled around him will not last. Eventually, the shock will wear off and the indignant, _righteous_ anger will win out, and he's not sure he can contain himself when the _rage_ finally sets in.

Which is why he had _desperately_ wanted to avoid this confrontation - wanted to slip away before Jane's own shock had worn off - because he does _not_ want to direct his burning outrage - justified or not - at Jane.

She is the _last_ person who deserves his ire.

He places his hands on her shoulders and gently, but firmly, moves her a few feet to the side.

A single, large tear drops from her lashes and onto the pale skin of her cheek. It catches the light from the window, and magnifies the freckles beneath.

Gunther feels his heart crack - she's crying _for_ him, because he cannot cry for himself. The pain, the betrayal; she's taken them all on herself, and in true Jane fashion is feeling them for _him._

He wishes she wouldn't - he may not be guilty or complicit in his father's crimes, he'd not even _known_ what his father had been up to these last few years, but he _is_ unworthy of her tears.

He is, after all, still a Breech.

Hands still on her shoulders, Gunther pushes her down, so she's sitting on the foot of his bed. He's surprised she doesn't fight him.

He tucks a stray curl behind her ear. Her braid is almost a total loss. "I _am_ sorry, Jane." Gunther leans down, and before she can react, presses a quick kiss into the mess of her hair then steps away.

She sits there stunned - eyes blown wide and breath caught in her throat - any further protests completely forgotten by his sudden, unexpected, show of affection.

Desperate to escape before she recovers enough to ask _What the hell was that? -_ Gunther grabs his pack, his bedroll, and his weapons. He's almost out of the castle - passing underneath the thin arrow slits that serve as the barrack windows - when her first broken wail cuts through the courtyard.


	2. On the Road

"I love you," he says aloud, and startles himself awake.

Maybe not _completely_ awake, because he reaches over and is disappointed when he finds the sheets of his bed are cold and lonely.

Because he's not in his bed, he's huddled under his cloak. There was never anyone pressed warm and snug against him, and there are no sheets - there is only the frozen, rough ground between him and the nearly dead campfire. The sheets from his dream are, in reality, just the pathetically thin blanket which is all that separates him from the dirt.

Gunther clings to the dream, tries to remember the warmth and comfort it had provided, but it's fading faster than he can commit it to memory. There's the impression of a soft, supple arm, the scent of flowers - lavender - and the feeling of being wanted, loved.

A feeling of ...belonging.

He loses the shape and the smell of it almost immediately, and mourns its passing. But it's a dream that has no basis in memory or fact, so he can't categorize it, can't associate it, can't store it away.

 _Hell_ , it's not even a dream borne of imagination.

At least, not on a conscious level. Such thoughts had always seemed wrong, somehow unnatural, maybe even _forbidden_ \- so he's never _allowed_ himself to fantasize about something so unattainable as comfort, family, or _love._ Those things are not for _him._

This want - no, this _need -_ for belonging is an as-of-yet unknown desire, a _yearning,_ which has been pulled from his subconscious, unwilling. Before now, before all this horrible business with his father and the king, hadn't Gunther belonged? Hadn't the castle been his home, the knights his family, and Jane his best friend and partner?

Now, with all of that gone, all of it _ripped_ away - that thing, that _part_ of his life he hadn't thought he needed has worked its way free from his subconscious. A thorn which has surfaced and needs to be removed in order for the wound to bleed clear.

Such dreams have no place in the real world.

Not anymore.

Nevertheless, Gunther stares at the dying embers and wishes for the dream - the _feeling_ of it - to come back, even though he knows it is gone. His insides feel raw, empty. He laments the cruelty of a life where a heart can keep beating, keep _pounding_ away day in and day out as though nothing is wrong, even after it has been broken.

He _hates_ the void it leaves, the sense of being empty, hollow. The numbness is worse than the anger, so he abandons his attempt to remember the dream and wills the anger back. _Anything_ is better than this gasping vacuum that threatens to consume him.

It's easy enough to remember the anger, the fury. _That_ wound is still fresh, and burns around the edges.

Thusly warmed, Gunther drifts back into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

 _The hall isn't silent, even though no one is talking. They dare not, lest they risk drawing the attention of the insecure and volatile child-king who occupies the throne. Even so, faint rustling can be heard from the stiff, formal attire of those present for the proceedings, as the wearers politely jostle for a better view._

 _Gunther understands - they aren't being voyeurs, they are protecting themselves. Like himself, they live at the castle as hostages of the king. Nearly all of them are offspring of Kippernia's nobles, wealthy elite, or military generals. The vast majority of them are little more than children; they are young, afraid, and know full well the capricious nature of their new monarch._

 _Knowledge_ is _power, and here at court where they have so_ little _power, it is the only thing they have to trade._

 _So they watch._

 _Even Jane is here, behind the throne with her father, gnawing at her lip. Gunther resists the urge to tell her to stop - she'll bloody it and leave it cracked and bleeding. She must know something he does not, she's wrapped around the thin frame of her father and all but crackles with some unknown emotion. The Lord Chamberlain looks similarly disturbed, and the white of his knuckles indicate he is holding Jane_ firmly _in place._

 _Gunther reaches the dias and takes a knee to his king._

" _Gunther Breech," begins the king, his tone practically dripping with disdain. He does not use Gunther's earned appellation of_ Knight _; it's not entirely surprising, even as a child Cuthbert did not like him. "We have found your father guilty of treason. His estate and all of his holdings have been seized and are now the sovereign property of the crown."_

 _Gunther's head snaps up- "_ What? _What has he done?"_

" _His formal charges include fraud, sedition, collusion with enemies of the kingdom, and high treason. Naturally he has been sentenced to death..._

 _What say you?"_

 _Gunther is speechless - struck dumb - well and thoroughly shocked._

" _I- I- I had no idea of my father's dealings - we haven't even spoken since last winter-"_

" _Somehow We find that rather hard to believe. The Breeches have a long familial history of greed and treason, do they not?"_

" _I am not my father. Or my grandfather, for that matter. I have served the kingdom, yourself, and the late King Caradoc with honor for all of these years."_

 _The King affects a thoughtful, pensive mein. It's false, everyone here knows it's false - whatever decision he's made was settled long before Gunther walked into the throne room._

" _You certainly put on a good_ show _of loyalty, and We have not uncovered_ direct _evidence of your involvement. So We are inclined to be merciful. Still We cannot have a trained killer, with a family history of seditious activities, positioned so close to the throne. You are hereby stripped of your title of Knight, and immediately relieved of your duties. You will remove yourself from this court and castle by daybreak tomorrow, and We suggest that you be_ very, very _careful with your future endeavours."_

 _Gunther is reeling. "May I see my father before I leave?"_

" _So that you can continue to plot and scheme? No. You are dismissed."_

 _And with that - fortune secured and threat eliminated - the king has forgotten him._

 _Gunther stands, his hands are clenched into fists at his sides to hide the shaking, and glances over to where Jane is pulling, tugging at her father's grip, desperate to be free. He spins on his heel before she can catch his eye, and makes his escape with long, purposeful steps._

* * *

Gunther has no real destination in mind, no set direction to travel, and feels no compulsion other than a general, directionless need to get _away_. Truly the points of the compass mean nothing; thanks to the king's mishandling of public funds, there are opportunities for a man such as himself just about everywhere.

Brigands and bandits have become more commonplace in the last few years - he and Jane had been kept busy since their knighting. Their days had been filled with constant patrols, grueling marches, and aggravatingly depressing missions as knights of the realm. Thievery and preying on innocents is an awful, immoral, _illegal_ means by which to survive - but half the time they'd flush a gang and find the "men" to be nothing more than starving children. Boys younger than himself, still without whiskers.

 _Duty_ , he'd told himself when he'd lain down at night only to see their thin faces and large, frightened eyes hanging before him in the dark. It was his _duty_ as a knight.

Well, he's not a knight anymore, is he?

As a civilian, Gunther's skills could easily be put to to use as part of a town watch, a caravan guard, or - as Jane had so despaired - a mercenary. The first two are noble enough options, but the third - it makes him feel ever so slightly ill.

Hopefully, it will not come to that.

He would much rather protect innocents from brigands than become a sellsword, but hell, Gunther is skilled enough to start his _own_ band of thugs, should he be so inclined. He's educated, knowledgeable, skilled with a weapon, and - _according to the king_ \- comes from a long line of scoundrels. Gunther very much enjoys the idea of raiding King Cuthbert's coffers and distributing the wealth back to Kippernia's people.

A good chunk of said wealth is actually _his_ \- or had belonged to his father, at least - and Gunther finds it hard to feel guilty for his ignoble daydreams.

It's not as if he would _actually_ start his own gang. Still, the idea of the honorable thief appeals.

Jane would certainly disapprove.

* * *

Directionless, Gunther decides to head north, for no other reason than the kingdom's border is closer there, and the sooner he crosses into a neighboring country, the better - _worse,_ his heart whispers, _worse -_ he will feel.

He could have hopped on a ship in Kippertown and been in international waters within hours, but if he had tried the docks it was unlikely he would have gone unrecognized. Gunther hasn't worked for his father since his knighting, but his title - no, his _former_ title - only makes him more identifiable. The dockworkers, and probably the sailors as well, would know him by sight, and likely string him up.

After all, it seems improbable that the king would have paid out the sailors' contracts before freezing Magnus' assets.

So Gunther goes north. He is without a horse and the roads are rough, and it is slow going. The route itself is almost entirely uphill; he's in the foothills by the first day, has sighted the first low mountains by the third. Occasionally he travels with others, but companionship becomes less frequent the further he gets from the castle. Such fellow travelers as he _does_ meet along the way include small groups of traders, single men, gaunt and hungry-looking families; people who - like himself - are emigrating over the border in hopes of finding more opportunities, a better life.

He's happy to lend his sword as protection as they wander along, but he's wary of revealing too much about himself. More than once he's heard grumblings about a traitor merchant and his dishonored son.

It makes him feel guilty, and he sends up an unspoken apology to his friend, but Gunther introduces himself as Jethro, the fourth son of a kind and gentle nobody. He presents himself as a man who was apprenticed out to the castle - there had only been so much work at the pig farm - and had trained as a castle guard - but now…

No one ever asks any questions after that.

Everyone, _everyone_ , has their own _but now._

A family member who had been in service to the old king and since let go. A rich uncle who was swindled into poverty by the traitor. A son who was slaughtered by brigands. A young wife, lost because the husband could not afford a midwife. A farmer who could not meet the new taxes, and had his lease revoked by the king's men.

Common ground; a plethora of small catastrophes following the death of King Caradoc. They commiserate his loss, give a small prayer for the late king and his good-natured wife, and don't ask any further questions.

At night he camps alone. Doing so is foolhardy; he can't keep watch _and_ sleep, and the people he sometimes travels with with could probably use the protection he'd be able to afford them. But he cannot bring himself, somehow, to share a camp with any of these acquaintances. He tells himself he doesn't want to reveal himself, that he wants the anonymity, _needs_ the solitude.

But that isn't the true reason for his self-imposed isolation. Gunther knows it's not.

It is punishment.

Not that he hasn't been punished enough - he has, _surely_ he has - but shouldn't he have recognized what his father was up to, shouldn't he have seen it and stopped it himself? Gunther had told the truth when he'd said it had been winter the last time they'd spoken - argued, really - it had been the final straw before he'd moved permanently into the barracks. Gunther hadn't even bothered to retrieve the few sentimental items he'd hidden away in his room - Jane had urged him to, but he hadn't. He'd just walked out and never gone back.

Maybe this _was_ his fault.

No. _No._

Gunther had _never_ been Magnus' moral compass. Such thoughts were unfair. Self-flagellation.

If there was _anything_ to feel guilty for, it was for leaving Jane so abruptly.

Not that he'd had much choice.


	3. Lost and Found

The uphill march is long and tedious when journeyed on foot. His back aches, his thighs ache, his calves ache, his feet ache, his heart aches - Well, his feet anyway, as Gunther slowly but surely makes his way into the mountains. He hopes he'll be able to cross the pass before the snows set in; none of the other travelers are desperate enough to make such an attempt, so by the time he's reached the true base of the mountains, he's completely alone.

He _knows_ it's foolhardy to even make the attempt. The pass is dangerous enough in the _summer -_ and Gunther wonders if he has gone barking mad to try during _guaranteed_ whiteouts and avalanches.

But really, what has he got to lose?

He tightens the straps of his pack, pulls his holed socks over his hands, and begins the hard leg north.

At the end of the twenty-second day since his ...exodus from the castle, Gunther is quite certain the mountains have been trying to kill him. But he's cleared the summit of the first one, made his way up past the treeline of the second, and has just finished setting up his camp for the night when a shadow blocks out the moon.

Dragon.

Certainly there is no bird of prey large enough to eliminate the light of the moon for an _entire_ heart beat.

He is on his feet immediately, sword drawn - for _what_ he isn't sure. There isn't anywhere nearby he can hide. Or rather, anywhere to hide which will be safe from Dragon's keen eye. Gunther isn't afraid, exactly, but it would be within Cuthbert's sense of sadistic, childish humor to send Jane and Dragon as his executioners. It would be the exact sort of self-aggrandizing order he would give, a show of control over Jane as one of his small, unimportant knights.

Jane would balk - duty or no she is unable to _murder_ someone she knows is innocent - but of course Cuthbert would have her father as hostage. Pepper and Smithy too, along with their small family.

It would be easy, _appallingly_ so, for the king to force her hand.

Gunther realizes he's crouched in a defensive stance - which is pure idiocy. If Jane truly _has_ been ordered to kill him, Dragon will most likely just flame him from above. It'd be a mercy for both of them; Gunther would be dead in an instant, and Jane would be absolved of any actual wrongdoing. He puts away his sword. Gunther's not exactly resigned to his fate, but has no desire to run from it either.

It's a tense few minutes as Dragon spirals around. He dips lower, lower, finally landing with a dull thud which shakes the spartan trees. Dragon stretches out his neck and rolls his shoulders, popping the bones there. They crack hollowly, like the empty bones of a pheasant or a chicken - and turns one large eye towards him.

"Jethro." He nods in greeting, and levers down to allow Jane an easier dismount.

At least Gunther _thinks_ it's Jane. She's almost unrecognizable underneath all her winter coats, cloaks, and scarves. She must not have been coming to kill him, because they're piled all around her in a haphazard fashion, without _any_ planning or thought to combat. Jane slides off, her legs are bowed from the long ride, and starts working the strap of Dragon's harness through the buckle.

It's the heavier harness, the one she uses when transporting passengers or delivering supplies to an entrenched garrison. The leather is frozen stiff - her fingers must be too, because they're clumsy and scrabble uselessly at the clasp. There are a number of packs attached to the harness, weighing it down, impeding her progress. She curses under her breath, frustrated, and is moving so slowly he steps forward, automatically, to help. A habit borne of long years of partnership.

There's ice on the buckle, but eventually he works the leather free and pulls the entire contraption off.

Finally released from the harness, Dragon lets out a sigh of relief, trundles a short distance from camp, and sets about rubbing himself around in the scree like a dog who has found something _particularly_ smelly to roll in.

Except for her earlier cursing, Jane has yet to say anything. Gunther knows she'll talk when she wants to - at that point he'll be lucky to get her to shut up - so he leaves her alone. Instead he watches Dragon's antics, and has a hard time reconciling the silly beast before him with the killer monster he'd been worried about a few short minutes ago.

Dragon sees Gunther watching. "What?" he asks. "It was itchy. You know I hate the harness."

He does.

He _knows_ how much Dragon hates the harness, or being treated like a pack horse, or being discussed as if he were not _right there._ Gunther knows Dragon doesn't like foggy days, doesn't like rude shortlives, doesn't like spiders or radishes - both of which, for reasons _completely_ unknown to Gunther, will make him screech like a small child.

He _knows_ Dragon. All of his likes and dislikes, his predilections and foibles.

Just like he knows Jane.

Gunther feels a sudden, sharp stab of guilt for thinking, even for a moment, that they could possibly be here to do him harm. They deserve better than that, both of them.

Gunther turns back to Jane. Her collection of coats and cloaks have been discarded, but she's still silent, busying herself with the packs. There seem to be a great number of them, at least just for herself and Dragon. Usually she prefers to travel lightly, not wanting to overburden her friend - or, probably more accurately, not wanting to listen to Dragon's whining complaints.

Jane opens one bag, then another, and then apparently having found what she was searching for, thrusts two of the packs into his arms.

"Here," she says, and drops to her knees to fish around some more.

"What is this?" he asks, genuinely confused.

"Your winter gear." The words are clipped - she must still not want to talk.

Gunther scowls, but she isn't looking at him. "I _have_ gear."

"You forget I saw what you took with you when you left the castle. A broken down summer kit that _should_ have been replaced two summers ago. That is better."

"It _was_ my winter kit."

"Three years ago, then."

Gunther looks at the other various bags strewn about. "And all that?"

"Mine." she sets about unpacking one - a bedroll that looks immeasurably better than the one he's been using. She sets it a few feet from his own, near the fire. She still won't look at him.

Gunther sets the heavy items down. "Jane, what are you doing here?"

"Setting up camp, dung brain." She huffs, planting both hands on the tops of her thighs, and _finally_ looking at him. "Which I suggest you do as well, unless you _want_ to freeze to death tonight." It's a good show of being annoyed, but that's all it is. A show. She's uncomfortable and nervous, afraid of -

 _What is she afraid of?_

Jane goes back to busying herself, movements jerky and uncoordinated. It might be leftover from a long ride and the cold, but Gunther doesn't think so. Jane yanks at the cord and the thin leather leaves a friction burn on her finger. Jane curses again, hisses, and sticks the injured finger in her mouth, grumbling.

 _Damn,_ she was aggravating.

 _Holy hell,_ he had missed her.

Still, this was odd. Her frenzied, almost manic motions. Her clipped words and lack of explanation. _Shite_ , her presence here was enough to raise a whole _slew_ of questions.

"That's not-" he groans. "Please stop and look at me. Sarding hell." Frustrated, Gunther steps forward to stand on the edge of her bedroll - impeding her progress. He's reminded of a few weeks prior, when she tried to prevent him from leaving the castle. "No, Jane. What are _you_ doing _here?_ "

"Keeping a promise," she says, a little too quickly.

"To who?"

"To _whom."_ She corrects.

Good _lord,_ can't she just answer his damn questions, instead of being so full of Jane-ness?

"To me," chimes Dragon. He rolls his eyes. " _Finally."_

"Yes, lizard-breath, to you." She says with an affect of long suffering. Jane takes a deep breath, having _finally_ decided to talk. "Dragon and I are going to look for the other dragons - and I find myself in need of a hired sword."

What?

 _What?_

 _No._ What ridiculous tomfoolery was this? What on heaven's earth could she be thinking?

She must be joking, but Gunther is _not_ amused. "Go home, Jane."

"Dragon is my home," she says with quiet conviction.

"Your mother would be beside herself if she ever heard you say something so asinine." Dragon makes a low sound; Gunther isn't sure if he's annoyed with Gunther's statement or agrees. Either way, Jane _cannot_ be serious.

"Go home." He repeats.

Jane's mouth twists into an unattractive frown. "My mother has been dead for three years - and despite her _many_ and _varied_ flaws, I get my loyalty, and love for family and friends from her. "

"And your father, what does he say? Does he approve of this little venture- of you running away from the castle?"

Jane resumes her unpacking. "I am _not_ running away. I am a grown adult making an informed decision about the direction I wish my life to take. And he approves."

Gunther scoffs in disbelief. "Somehow I doubt that- and this approval, it does not conflict with his duties?"

Jane is quiet for a moment. "My father is no longer in the king's employ." Her voice is tight - she clears her throat before continuing "He has decided to accept Lavina's offer of employment. He left a few days after you did."

"He wha-?" Gunther shakes his head - an attempt to refocus - they could come back to that. He will _not_ let Jane deflect his questions. "And you? Goddamnit Jane, _WHY ARE YOU HERE?!"_

"I am also," her voice breaks, "no longer in the king's employ."

Nothing - _nothing_ she could have said would have surprised him more.

"Oh Jane - oh _JESUS -_ " He stands up and paces around their small camp, hands fisted in his hair. "What _happened?_ "

And like that, she is falling apart. Whatever thin thread had been holding her together has snapped - _he'd_ been the one to tug on it, over and over - and she's unravelling right before his eyes. Her mouth opens, and for a moment no sound comes out. Then it _does,_ and it is horrible. Great wet sobs that wrack her body and rend her throat. Her shoulders shake and she squeezes her eyes shut; her tears roll down her face and drip unnoticed onto her drawn-up knees.

It's awful to watch, torturous. Jane is not a pretty crier, but it is the raw, desperate emotion of someone who has lost _everything_ which makes him want to look away.

But he can't. He won't. _He_ is responsible for this. In more ways than one.

Gunther drops to his knees, intent on offering some sort of physical comfort, but once he's there - her tears are thick, her eyes are swollen, and there's snot running down her face - he finds he has _no_ idea how to go about doing so. It's awkward and strange, and even if they were partners this is _not_ who they are, but he tries anyway. He moves to set his hand on her shoulder, but she slaps it away, with an infuriated, " _Do not."_

He does not. Gunther moves back to his own pallet and lets her have her space.

After a while, long enough he has to throw more wood on the fire, Jane's hiccuping sobs slow, then dry up completely.

What _is_ left in their place is that strange, calm emptiness. Gunther may not be the most empathetic of people, but this is a feeling he understands.

"I was going to plead your case," she begins, after wiping her face with her sleeve. "I had written up a whole list of your recent accomplishments, and another of past instances where a king has shown leniency to the kingdom's benefit. ...Sir Theodore and his history lessons, I suppose." She sniffles and wraps her arms around her knees, determined to continue. "I never even got to present them. Two days after you left... Cuthbert called me in before the court, and relieved me of my knighthood. He said it was disgusting, _unnatural_ , for me - for _any_ woman - to parade about in armor and weapons, pretending to be a man."

Gunther opens his mouth to say something, anything to comfort or commiserate, but nothing comes out.

"Apparently I am an abomination. Though he has clearly forgotten I am the abomination who rescued him from a fire-breathing dragon when he was a small child."

Gunther waits for her to continue, but she does not.

Dragon wanders back over and lays his head on her pallet. Unlike Gunther he doesn't try to touch her - Gunther supposes he's seen her cry enough in the last few weeks, and knows better.

"She was, however," the beast rumbles, "in deference to her _inherited_ title - as if such a thing holds any meaning at all - offered a _very_ lucrative position as Cuthbert's broodmare."

Jane tenses but continues to stare at the fire.

Once again Gunther finds himself stunned, absolutely, and completely floored - when a few short minutes ago he'd thought nothing could be more surprising than Jane having been de-knighted. Sure, Cuthbert had held a small torch for Jane for years, but -

"She- he - _what?"_ Gunther stutters, aghast. "Jane, why would you be _here_ when you could be _queen?_ "

"No, Gunther," amends Dragon, speaking to him as though he is a particularly slow and stupid child, " _not_ as queen."

 _If not as queen, then what_ -

And then it clicks.

Gunther hisses in a breath through his teeth, his head suddenly _swimming_ with anger on Jane's behalf. He feels pain flare in his hands and glances down to see that he's fisted them so hard his overlong and jagged nails are digging crescents into the skin of his palms.

He forces them to relax, only to find that his jaw has clenched instead.

How _dare_ he? How DARE he?! That puffed-up little -

"Cuthbert is a _fool,_ " he grits out, distantly surprised by the sheer force of his reaction. He's _seething_.

Jane is still staring into the fire. "I reacted ...poorly. I embarrassed the king in front of the entire court. If I had still been a knight I suppose he would have had me thrown in the dungeons or maybe hung. But as I was not, he deemed it more embarrassing, more _hurtful_ to remove my father from the post he'd held for nearly thirty years. He left our titles - unimportant in the grand scheme of things - but we no longer had a home in the castle." Jane takes a deep, shuddering breath. "My father left by the end of the week - Lavinia had offered him a position at her court, if you recall - Dragon and I saw him off on one of your father's - _the king's_ -" she corrected, "ships."

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, but they do not last very long.

With a shake of her head she decides she done with crying - at least for the time being - and retrieves another pack. This one is apparently filled with foodstuffs; Jane pulls out two small bundles and a stoppered jug. She hands a bundle to Gunther - _ah, Pepper's meat pies! -_ and sinks back down.

Setting her own pie aside, she unstoppers the jug and takes a long, _long_ swig before passing it to him.

Gunther sniffs the liquid - _sweet damnation, where did she get this stuff?_ \- before downing some himself. _Maggots -_ it burns like that swill his father used to drink.

Jane motions for the bottle, takes it from his outstretched hands, and drinks again.

Apparently it is going to be one of _those_ nights.

Gunther supposes she is entitled. He is too, but - he's still so _angry -_

"Jane you _cannot_ come with me. I -

"Gunther Breech," she interrupts, scolding him, "I have been relieved of my duty, stripped of my dignity, thrown out of my home, and torn asunder from the people I love. I can _do_ whatever the hell I want." She stoppers the bottle without looking at him. "Despite all that, I am not without money, or resources, or _friends_. And I am not asking to come with you, you arrogant jackass. I am asking _you_ to come with _me._ With _us._ "

"To find the dragons?"

"Yes."

Gunther doesn't say anything - he has nothing _to_ say. He can't formulate a response for such a ridiculous offer - one that won't send Jane into a screaming fit, or back onto Dragon, or both. Jane can't _really_ expect him to join her on some _insane,_ grandiose _quest_ to hunt for bleeding _dragons_ \- can she?

He'd had ...plans… of some sort. Hadn't he?

No.

He can't possibly go along with them - can he?

Gunther leans over and retrieves the bottle from her lap.


	4. Home Again

A little while later - Jane has gone to the necessary - Gunther takes the opportunity to dig through the packs she'd given him. The first is a standard winter kit - though everything in it is new. He pulls out the bed roll and the woolen blanket. They are in no danger of inclement weather, so he doesn't bother setting up his tent - he just rolls it out on top of his current kit and looks forward to sleeping well.

...sleeping _better,_ at least.

The second bag contains several packages wrapped in leather or oil-cloth. Gunther opens the first and gapes at the contents, dumbfounded. It's his family's bible - an expensive, _opulent_ purchase by his grandfather - and the small palm-sized engraving of his mother and her sisters.

He stares blankly at them for a breathless moment before setting them aside.

From the bottom of the bag he withdraws a softer bundle. His dress clothes, boots, and three of his nicest shirts.

Jane comes back just as he's placing the items back into the bag. She pulls a face and plops down ungracefully - the liquor must be taking effect if she's lost her coordination - and even in the inconsistent light of the fire he can tell she's blushing.

She arranges herself on the bedroll, tucks her legs underneath herself, and releases her hair from her braid. She picks through the curls with her fingers; it's a nervous habit she falls into when she's embarrassed - she uses the unruly mass as curtain, a shield, a means to hide her face.

"Where did you get these?" He asks, carefully. Gunther is not sure he can deal with another round of her heavy tears.

She is so quiet, he almost doesn't hear her answer. "From your room."

"From the estate?" He presses.

Jane finishes finger-combing her hair and begins the lengthy process of re-winding her braid. He fingers twiddle nervously in the coils and she fidgets in place. "Yes."

"I am surprised - after everything you've told me - Cuthbert would let you have them."

Jane clears her throat before answering. "He did not."

Gunther's eyes go wide at the implication. "Jane… Jane did you _steal_ these?"

"I did not. I returned them to their rightful owner."

Everytime Gunther thinks he's got a handle on his view of the world, on this peculiar and strange new _life_ of his, something happens to _completely_ upend it.

 _Jane_ happens.

"But -" he's completely astounded. "But you broke into the manse and _took_ them?" Gunther is at a loss, he feels like he should give some sort of thanks, or scold her, or _something_ \- but his mind and heart are muddled so he falls into their all-too-familiar pattern of teasing. "I would never have guessed your knight's honor would allow such thievery."

She does not appreciate his humor. "You seem to forget I am no longer a knight - and thanks to King Cuthbert, I have come to realize there are varying degrees of thievery."

They're silent for a long moment - even with the alcohol, he's having a hard time wrapping his mind around this new, unfamiliar Jane.

"And the new gear?"

"Revoked knighthood or not, I _am_ a lady of the realm." She says defensively, worrying her lip with her teeth. She reaches up to fiddle with her braid - but she remembers she has just finished replaiting it, and she sits on her hands instead. "I am not without funds of my own."

He doesn't believe her - not at _all._ New Jane maybe be baffling, but _New_ Jane is still _Old_ Jane, and Old Jane is a _terrible_ liar.

And Cuthbert - even if he is an idiot child-king unable to think toward the future - Cuthbert is _nothing_ if not thorough when he is being petty.

" _Jane…"_ he prods.

"Fine." She huffs. "I also stole all of the silver. I suppose I should thank you for my new gear."

* * *

This time, it's Jane who breaks their companionable silence.

"Jethro, huh? Son of a pig farmer?"

Gunther gives her a sideways smirk. "I did not think Smithy would mind."

Jane smiles and looks up at the stars. This far up they are bright, even with the setting moon and the light of the fire. "It certainly made you easier to find."

"And what of them? Has the king found reason to cast out Smithy and Pepper? What will they do? Pepper cannot travel in her condition."

"She had the baby, actually. A boy. He is huge - larger than his brother was - and came out with a full shock of blond hair." She stops her inspection of the sky and crawls over to the pile of cloaks. She picks through them - Jane must have grabbed _all_ she had before leaving her tower - and drags one back to the bedroll.

"But you are quite right, it will be a while before the baby can travel." Jane settles the thick wool over her shoulders and tucks it about herself. "My father will try to find them a position in Lavinia's household - but I suspect they will leave the castle to join him, either way."

A long and arduous journey, especially with two small children. "And how will they afford that?"

Jane gives him her most charming, most mischievous smile.

 _Of course._ "The silver again?"

"They named the baby Gunther in honor of your generosity."

The evening had been so full of surprises, had thrown him so _completely_ off-kilter, that for a fleeting, brief minute he actually believes her.

"Har har, Jane. Now I am not sure I believe _anything_ you have said tonight."

"Would that they _were_ all lies." She sighs and tightens the cloak. "They named him Cedric, after the _old_ king. But to answer your question, yes - the silver."

He doesn't mind. If his father was a traitor, then such extravagances had been paid for by ill-gotten funds. If his father was innocent, then Cuthbert is the thief and the money belongs to the Breeches - and Gunther fully sanctions Jane's decision.

Jane smiles and reaches over to give his hand a quick squeeze. "I knew you would approve. Besides, it is not like ladies armor is in high demand." She releases his hand, retrieves the jug, and takes another swig. "I will say all of those useless combs my mother foisted on me fetched a high enough price. The ribbons, too. _And_ the dresses." She waves in the general direction of her packs. "Although I did keep the one." She passes the bottle back to him then lets out a sudden, harsh bark of laughter. "I am a common thief. My mother would definitely _not_ approve."

"Well _I_ do, and you are hardly common. In fact, I think you might have a penchant for thievery. Did I tell you I was considering starting my own band of bandits? Steal from the rich, give to the poor?"

"Really? How terribly noble, Gunther."

"Thank you. Based on your more recent exploits, I think you'd be an excellent addition. How do you feel about being my third in command?"

Jane snorts, "Third? Who do you expect to fulfill second in command?'

"Dragon of course."

"Of course. How silly of me." She lies back to study the stars.

* * *

"I stayed until they hung your father," she says, apropos of nothing.

"Magnus." He corrects.

"Your _father._ " Gunther can almost hear her eyes drag across the inside of her skull as they roll. "Magnus was still your father - even if he was guilty as hell. Even if you were estranged and he was a right bastard in the years before then."

Jane reaches up and gives her cheek a little slap. Her face must be going numb with the drink. "I tried to see him, but I couldn't get past the prison guards. They apologized - I think I actually made James _cry -_ but orders are orders."

Gunther thinks he might be past _inebriated_ and onto _actually sarding drunk_ \- because he _knows_ that this should hurt more than it does - but it doesn't. He's just vaguely curious, in a detached, hazy sort of way.

"Did that puny little rat-king string up his corpse as an example? Put his head on a spike?"

Jane grimaces and rolls to face him. She's well into her cups - as evidenced by her face-slapping - but not yet punchy enough to have lost _all_ of her compassion. "Nothing so grotesque, I assure you. But I was disappointed when I heard Cuthbert ordered him buried in an unmarked grave, instead of under the tree, next to your mother. But -" she stops, not finishing the thought.

"But?"

"He never got the chance," she says, and then dissolves into a round of snorting, rolling laughter.

Gunther's confused - what could _possibly_ be funny about Cuthbert's blatant disrespect for the dead? Jane is laughing hysterically, gasping, choking for air. She is - for the moment at least - completely unavailable to answer his queries. Worried, Gunther shoots Dragon a confused look. "What is so funny?"

Dragon gives a deep, low chuckle before explaining. "Jane had me steal his casket, and burn him up on the mountain. She set up a proper pyre and everything - away from the wind and prying little royal eyes. The next morning she raked him into one of Pepper's old pots, and then we sprinkled him into the high grass around your mother's grave."

Gunther scrubs a hand through the rough bristle of his stubble and stares at Jane's shaking form. Had she gone completely _mad?_ She _stole_ the body of a convicted traitor, and dispatched it in _direct_ violation of a royal decree.

 _Holy hell, Jane_ _stole a body._

His _father's_ body.

"Jane -" Gunther stands and paces around the fire. Pins and needles shoot up his spine and his hands are numb - and he doesn't think it is from the drink. He walks back and forth, trying to burn off the horrid, nervous - _fear_ \- energy, but cannot. After a few minutes he gives up, and plops back down on his blanket. " _Jane_ \- you went against the king's orders. You did not just embarrass him, you committed _treason_."

Jane takes a deep breath and releases it in a long whoosh - an attempt to stop her giggles. "Do not be such a ninny, Gunther. No one saw."

"It was a huge risk." Gunther tries to keep the reproach out of his tone but -

She waves him off and sits up. "It was nothing." Her face is bright red, crimson almost - ruddy with her mirth and the alcohol - and her freckles have all but disappeared under the flush of blood in her cheeks. Jane takes a deep breath and presses the heels of her hands against the flesh of her cheeks in an attempt to cool them.

He scowls - had she been caught, she would have been executed. "It was a _huge_ risk."

She doesn't respond, but flips her hands over and presses the cooler backs of her fingers against her face and neck.

He runs a trembling hand through his hair. "Magnus was not worthy of your kindness."

She takes a drink and hands him back the jug. "I did not do it for him."

Gunther lifts the bottle to take another pull at the burning liquid, but stops. His heart is already pounding, his insides warm. He sets it down for now. He glances up to find Jane studying him. She's completely still - her laughter forgotten - not fidgeting or playing with her hair. She's not at _all_ uncomfortable with what she's done - but she _is_ watching his reaction carefully.

He should shake her for endangering herself so unnecessarily.

But what would be the point?

Gunther's mouth twists into a smirk. "Knowing my father, he'll probably kill the tree _and_ the grass."

And then they are _both_ laughing.

* * *

"Do you think the kingdom will fall?" He asks, seriously. He may no longer be a knight, may be _in process_ of removing himself as a citizen, but Kippernia is still the place of his birth. He still _believes_ in the tenets of honor and duty and friendship that he had sworn to uphold. He still _loves_ his country, and its peoples.

"Because of Cuthbert, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Yes? No?" Jane sighs heavily. She doesn't like talking about this any more than he does. "If enough people leave - or starve to death - everything will collapse. I'd venture to say that has already begun, otherwise he would not feel the need to make accusations and confiscate lands." Jane takes a deep breath before continuing. "It cannot work for long - redistributing the wealth to the nobles, or keeping it for himself. Who will grow the food? Protect the borders? How will he afford to support himself and his court? Magnus' estate - _your estate_ \- was vast. But it might last, what? A year? What then? Will he accuse more traitors?"

"Do you think Magnus was innocent?" The question tumbles out before he can stop it. Sober, it is not something he'd _ever_ consider asking Jane. It isn't really fair, putting her on the spot this way. But he's not even within a stone's throw of sober right now, is he?

"No. Though I would bet coin the charges against _your father,_ " she emphasizes the last part, before continuing, "were exaggerated."

Even if he had the coin, it would be a fool's bet.

Gunther mulls over everything she's said. "Do you think the other nobles will rebel?"

"Maybe. I expect the common folk would first. They would try to use his child as a means to secure the throne."

Gunther jerks his head in her direction, "Cuthbert doesn't have any children."

"Not yet." She pulls her cloak tighter against the chill.

It's a small movement, but Gunther is suddenly very, _very_ cold.

"...but," she continues, "Lady Meredith is, well - I would venture that is why he needed another mistress."

Gunther feels a flood of relief - it is so strong it practically _burns_ the ice from his veins - followed by a rush of pity for Sir Theodore's great niece. To be used, and then used _again_ for political gain. Realistically, how long could she and her child survive?

Jane might have been _mad_ to turn Cuthbert down so publicly, but - to end up like Lady Meredith? That would have been _torture_ for someone like Jane. "How do you _know_ these things, Jane?"

"I _listen,_ dung brain."

Gunther throws another stick into the fire. "I suppose I never really developed the knack."

She gives him a half smile, and hands him the bottle. "It is part of your charm."

* * *

"We are going to be sorry tomorrow." His words are slurred with liquor and exhaustion. Mostly liquor. And exhaustion. And liq- "Why do we do this?"

The world is spinning ever so slightly, so he bends his knee to plant one foot out on the ground, then throws out his arm to slap the dirt beside him. Almost immediately, the world stops its crazy revolutions. "There- -at's better."

Jane looks over at the sound of his movement, then - apparently thinking he has the right of it - mirrors his position. "Why would we be sorry?" She asks.

"Hangover." He mumbles - soon he'll be down to one-word answers, if he doesn't fall asleep.

"Do you have anywhere to be?"

He thinks for a long moment. "No."

"Me neither. … can sleep in."

He thinks she's fallen asleep but then - "You _are_ coming, right? I cannot do it without you, Gunther."

"Sure you can," he argues - because that is what he does.

He picks up his foot with the intention of facing her, and the world resumes its rotations. _No, thank you_. Gunther settles it back on the non-spinny ground and continues to stare at the stars.

Hadn't she just gone toe-to-toe with a king, commited grand theft, then treason, and _then_ ensured the safety of her friends by fencing stolen goods? "You can do anything you set your mind to."

Jane groans. "I leave you alone for three weeks and you turn into a damn optimist."

Gunther chuckles."Hardly." He is minutes from sleep. Maybe less.

"But you are? Coming with us?" She is uncertain, afraid he'll say no.

"Yeah. Let's go find the bloody dragons." As if there had _ever_ been any question.

"Good." The fingers of her outstretched arm scrabble in the dirt until they find and entwine with his own. "Dragon can be your home, too."

"Don't need him." He's fading quickly now, but he scoots over so he can capture her hand more fully. "Have you."

She gives a little sound of agreement, and then they are asleep.

* * *

 _A/N: Happy Janther week! Drop me a review, they make my day!_


End file.
